A/N: It took me a while to get back into the writing mode. I still know nothing about science or police work. Medical stuff? Not my area, but if it is any comfort, I've watched my share of Casualty. *g* So just pretend and use your imagination. This chapter is a bit more thoughtful but that's usually the case with my stories anyway, so...

An Old Friend

- Chapter Four -

Dr. David Robbins switched on the lamp that hung above the table and adjusted it into a better position so that it pointed directly at the pale corpse under it. He reached out his hand to the bowl that sat on the little movable table next to him. His fingers grabbed the cloth and pulled it out of the water. A little squeeze and the extra water dripped back to the bowl. He started wiping the dried blood off the body, and soon the once clear water was dark with red. He changed the water and continued.

He hated this part.

He could deal with dead people, he could deal with wounds and the blood and all that. One grows used to it over time, and time is what he's had plenty of. Burned bodies, sliced bodies, bodies that didn't look anything like human anymore, they didn't bother him. Much. It was the nursing. Cleaning them up and taking care of them. Dead people became alive again, it's the nursing that made them human once again in his eyes. He shook the thought out of his head. God, he was starting to sound like Norman Bates... This was something that had to be done, he reminded himself.

The cloth moved over the man's upper body with small strokes; across his chest, over his shoulders, carefully wiping the neck and the skin around the wound. Once in awhile he dipped the cloth into the bowl or changed the water when it got red. It took him half an hour to clean his body up.

There were a lot less blood on him than there were on the woman. She was still clothed with an old Mets T-shirt; his, he figured. He took the scissors and carefully cut the shirt open from the backside. The blood had glued the shirt onto her chest and it took a bit of yanking to get it off. He put it into a small plastic bag. He wrote the date and her name on the bag before sealing it.

His eyes wandered to the clock on the wall. Six twenty-five. What a way to start the day. With a tired sigh he switched on the lamp that hung above the table and adjusted it into a better position so that it pointed directly at the pale corpse under it.

***

6:26

He sipped the steaming hot coffee, not caring that it burned his tongue, and stared out of the window. He had purposefully sat into the window booth so that he could watch the traffic passing by. And, more importantly, so that he could watch the building across the street.

Another burning sip and he turned his gaze to the notebook that lay on the table in front of him. He felt lucky that day.

He took his time, accepted the refill with a smile when the pretty waitress offered it and ordered some pie. He waited. It didn't take long before the door of the concrete building flew open and a small group of people stepped out into the dawn. Three men and two women. They started crossing the street to the diner.

He glanced at his watch. 6:32. He marked the time down.

***

The door gave a little 'clank' as Nick pushed it open and entered the diner. The others followed him in. Without so much as a thought they walked to the same booth they always occupied and sat down. Warrick waved his hand at the waitress and soon she came to take their orders. None of them had to think at all; they always took the same things.

Sara had sat next to Grissom to continue their conversation, Nick noticed. Lately it'd seemed that it was always them. Everywhere he looked, it was always them; talking, drinking coffee together... He'd called her, Sara from everyone, to come to the scene to help them out. Sometimes he just couldn't understand what went on with the people around him. With a sigh and a shake of his head, he leant back in his chair, ignoring the fact that their closeness bothered him. He didn't want to wonder about them right now. Instead he started watching around. Considering that it was so early, there were unusually many people in the diner. Not that it was full, just that Nick couldn't remember the last time there were others in there except for them and a half a dozen of truck drivers and couple of early birds. That morning, most of the tables were occupied. People drinking coffee behind their papers. Men with brown or gray suits, mostly, which seemed odd to Nick for some reason. He had gotten used to the truck drivers, he thought with a small smile.

The conversation between Sara and Grissom continued but Nick had stopped listening to them way back at the CSI headquarters. They seemed to be getting to nowhere; they just debated for the sake of debating; conversation for the sake of not being quiet. They'd been doing that a lot lately. It didn't interest him anymore. It didn't seem meaningful. Not anymore. So, he let their voices flow past his ears and fixed his eyes on the waitress that floated easily from one table to the other, smiling at the customers, refilling their cups, changing a couple of words. She was new; he hadn't seen her more than once or twice before. She was also quite attractive, he noticed. So he watched her float from table to table, smiling, refilling, chatting. She floated to the kitchen and came back with a piece of pie. She took it to the man sitting in the window booth. Her light brown hair dropped to cover her face as she bent to place the plate on the table. The man smiled at her. He was a young man, blond hair, skinny. His smile was bright, though. He said something to the girl that made her chuckle.

Then he turned his eyes. To Nick. And he smiled. A small, disturbing smile directed straight at him across the room. Straight at him. A smile that made it impossible for him to take his eyes of off him.

"Nick?"

It took a second for him to realize that Catherine was talking to him. "Huh?" His eyes darted at her.

"You okay?"

He glanced at the man in the window booth. He had turned away, staring out of the window and slowly sipping his coffee. He blinked, confused. Had he been just imagining things? He shook his head. "Yeah, I'm fine."

"So, what about the autopsy?" Warrick guided the conversation back to the subject.

Grissom glanced at his clock. "I said I'd stop by after eight. You'll join me?"

"Why not."

"You're signing us all in?" Sara frowned.

"If we ever want to catch this one, we gotta move fast. The last murder was three days ago in another town. The killer doesn't stick around for too long, so we need all the help we can get."

"And we gotta do something to earn our paycheck," Warrick added with a smile.

His smile was responded with a smaller one from Grissom. "Yeah, that's another factor."

The conversation drifted off to lighter subjects eventually, but it didn't help to shake the memory of the man from Nick's mind. He had looked at him as if... As if he knew everything. About him, about them, about anything. It still sent creeps down his spine when he, five minutes later, forced himself to look at where the man had been sitting.

He was gone.

***

Dr. Robbins pulled the gloves off of his hands just as the door swung open. He glanced at the door and saw Grissom and Warrick.

"David," the older man greeted with a nod as they walked to the table. "What did you find out?"

With a deep breath he took the used gloves and tossed them into the bin before facing the CSI's. "A pretty straight forward case," he started and then moved closer to the male body. He gave a little wave at the direction of his neck. "The knife cut the artery. He died instantly. Her in the other hand..." The two men followed as he moved to the other table. He took the female's other hand in his and turned the palm up. "See those cuts?" he asked. "She struggled, tried to protect herself with her hands. There's also bruising on her arms and sides. The husband got surprised, but in the process, the wife woke up enough to put up a fight. I found some skin from under her nails. I sent it to Greg." He put the hand down. "There are three stab wounds in her chest. One just below the left shoulder - didn't do much damage. The other was lower, below the breastbone. The blade entered next to the spine causing severe damage to the liver."

"That killed her?" Warrick spoke.

Robbins shook his head. "No. It was the third cut. It went in here," - he pointed at the middle of her chest - "between the ribs. It ribbed the aorta open." Then he stepped back, giving the CSI's some room.

"What about the knife?" Grissom asked with a glance at him.

"The casting is drying. A narrow blade, four to five inches. We'll know better when the casting's done."

"Anything else?"

"No. No fabric, no hair, nothing."

Warrick shrugged. "Well, at least we have the skin." he said with a sigh. "If only we'd have something to compare it to."

TBC...

Ps. By the time I finished this, it was way too late and way too bizarre. Simply said, it was 1 a.m. Actually, it still is. Hey! Time has stopped! Oh, yeah... I forgot... It was two minutes ago when I finished writing... Yeah...